


Maintaining the Silence

by Rambert



Category: Original Work
Genre: Mental Illness, Other, a couple swears, ableist slur (censored), legal tobacco use, narrator self-harmed in the past before story occurs, nonverbal, self-harm scars, trauma that isn't described but did happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 20:03:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20570084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rambert/pseuds/Rambert
Summary: A random oneshot I wrote in 2012 about a nonbinary femme who has gone largely nonverbal from recent trauma and who used to self-harm. Their significant other Quinn (who is cis) is struggling to be supportive. Please mind the tags!





	Maintaining the Silence

I've always been good at maintaining a silence.

And yes, there's a difference between maintaining silences and just keeping quiet.

To some people it might be tense, but not to me. What's tenser is talking bullshit. I can't do that.

When people talk, and talk, and talk, and it just boils down to random mouth sounds because they're really not saying anything at all.

Like the goddamn teacher in Charlie Brown.

See, the thing about maintaining silence is that while not speaking, you're still aware of the other person.

You can think about them, and wonder what sort of day they've had, and even imagine what they might say if you were to ask them a question.

Not something trite, but actually thought-provoking. Then they'd pause, startled at the deepness of the question, then say "Well, I hadn't thought about it before, but now that you mention it..."

And so on.

I prefer to do this with strangers, because with people I know, I already know what they'll respond with and it isn't as interesting.

This probably makes me sound c***y. Doctors have certainly tried to tell me I am, and have given me multiple diagnoses over the years. But despite the little rainbow cocktails they keep testing on me, I feel more or less the same as I always have.

Today, I am maintaining the silence with Quinn, but it's more work than usual.

I can't help it; Quinn and I are best friends, and imagining conversations with her is like closing your eyes and imagining what your bedroom looks like. You already know everything about it.

We're sitting outside on the stoop of her dorm, and she's smoking.

I contemplate her answer to "How many cigarettes do you think you could feasibly smoke at once?" and watch her flick ash off the end of hers.

Quinn is a smoker for all the reasons they tell you not to be in middle and high school, but everyone of course disregards them for a while anyway. It's part of growing up-- figuring out on your own that adults tell you not to do some things for a reason, after you've done them yourself and then wished you hadn't later.

I'm distracted by a ladybug wandering over my shoelaces. I get it to crawl onto my finger, its little legs tickling my skin.

It crawls up my hand and over my bare arm, passing over the white lines of my scars like a train over the iron bars of a railroad track.

It's been years now since I took a razor to my skin, but the marks will probably never go away completely.

I'm not really sure that I want them to, anyway.

Quinn brings me back with a sudden laugh.

"Did you get yourself a pet?"

I just smile, faintly.

"Sometimes you don't even speak a word to me all day any more," she says, her tone suddenly sad.

She sighs, and smashes out her cigarette on the concrete beside her, lighting up another.

"You know..." She pauses to take a drag, and exhale slowly. "If I didn't love you so much, I would be pretty upset by it."

This probably should make me feel guilty, but I just shrug. Then I notice fingers moving across the back of my neck, slowly, gently. Playing with my hair, roving over my scalp.

"What're you thinking in there, hm...?"

I don't respond, but I don't pull away from the touch, either.

I lean my head against her shoulder, and she kisses my hair and murmurs things that get garbled before they reach my brain.

I think it's my hair that's doing it, tangling up the sounds so that only part of the words are sinking through my skull to be processed.

"I love you" is the only thing that comes through clear.

I'd say it back, but I haven't spoken a word all day and I don't want those words to be rusty. So I find her free hand with mine, and squeeze it slowly.

She seems to understand, and squeezes back.

The sky eventually grows dark, but it's not until the mosquitoes start coming out that she pulls away, slapping at her legs and arms. "Goddamn bugs!"

We stand quickly, and shake the bugs away, heading inside her dorm. She pulls me close for a hug.

"Have you eaten today?"

I nod. "Good," she says, and then leans in to kiss me goodnight. But when she gets close, I hear her murmur "What is that...?"

And suddenly her face wrinkles in disgust.

"Ew, you have a dead mosquito on your chin!"

I brush my hand over my skin-- sure enough, a little lump comes away onto my hand, the squished body of some mosquito slow enough to get killed while I was slapping at myself.

I almost feel sorry for the little thing-- and then suddenly I'm laughing, starting low in my throat but it's bubbling upwards, and Quinn starts giggling with me.

"Oh my god, I can't believe I almost _kissed_ you! I almost touched it! That's so gross!"

"Totally gross," I say, still laughing, and suddenly Quinn's face lights up in a way I haven't seen in days.

I should feel guilty that it takes so little to make her do that, now, but I just smile back, flicking the dead mosquito to the floor.

She reaches out and tucks a curl behind my ear, and says goodnight. I just nod, and head out the door, going across campus to my own dorm. The curl that she tucked falls out of place again, and I don't bother putting it back.

For the first time, I'm strangely grateful for mosquitoes.


End file.
